Lights Out Read online

  For the last seven days she’d been briefing intelligence officers from seven countries on the new look of terrorism, reminding them that homegrown cells posed the biggest threat to defending their homelands against terrorism. No one wanted to suspect their friendly neighbor might be building a bomb in their basement or plotting a mass shooting, but more and more, that was becoming the reality.

  Brynn’s cell phone chirped with a text message.

  I’m heading to bed. Long day tomorrow. Leftover pizza in fridge. Penny’s asleep on your bed. Sorry.

  Sending a thank-you response, Brynn felt bad. Her friend Olivia Sinclair and Olivia’s black lab, Penny, were in town for their annual training required as arson investigators. The perks of having her friend visiting for a few weeks meant fewer nights eating alone, talking with someone about anything other than work, and Penny—Olivia’s arson detection dog who loved to snuggle when her work harness came off. Unfortunately, the timing of this year’s visit had Brynn missing too many dinners with her friend and snuggles with Penny.

  Laughter drew Brynn’s attention to the baristas behind the counter. The bubbly sound felt loud and foreign in the coffee shop given the late hour. Brynn didn’t think she’d find this many people willing to brave the freezing windchill to burn the midnight oil on a Tuesday night, but wasn’t that the vibe in Washington, DC?

  Her gaze drifted to a man half-perched on a stool. Male. Fifties. Overworked and underpaid given the wrinkled suit and loose tie at his neck. Lobbyist? Public defender? Whatever his job, the pale band of skin on his ring finger signaled the price it had demanded.

  She scanned the other side of the coffee shop. Two college-aged girls sipped lattes with their hair in that messy-bun look that said “I don’t care.” However, the well-done highlights and designer purses showed they very much cared.

  Next to her was another man. Middle Eastern, possibly Syrian given the dialect she’d overheard when he was on the phone earlier. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark hair, even darker eyes when they were opened. Right now, they were closed. His head moved in rhythm to whatever was coming through his wireless earbuds. Still buried in a thick coat, the Syrian tapped his thumb against the binding of holy text she recognized as the Quran sitting in his lap.

  If the coffee shop were to explode right now and there were survivors, Brynn bet every single one of them would point to the man in the corner. And they’d likely be wrong.

  As a targeting analyst for the CIA, she was to monitor and assess indicators leading to potential global threats that might cause the radicalization and mobilization of US-based violent extremists. She’d built her whole program around the premise that anyone could be radicalized and ready to commit violence abroad, or worse—at home.

  From over her laptop, Brynn focused on a young man near the front of the coffee shop. Caucasian. Midtwenties, maybe. Hard to tell with the permanent scowl etched into his forehead. Unlike the college-aged girls, the guy wasn’t wearing his school colors and didn’t have a stack of textbooks spread across the table in front of him. And unlike the Syrian, who walked into the coffee shop twenty minutes earlier with his cell phone pressed to his ear arranging flight plans for his family, the young man hadn’t picked up his phone once in the two hours since he dropped into the leather chair near the front of the shop.

  A millennial not on their phone was like a bird without feathers, unnatural and suspi—

  The door to the coffee shop swung open, and a burst of frigid air chased after the man wearing a wool overcoat who entered. Her suspect glanced up and smiled for the first time all night as he stood and embraced the man in a friendly hug. A quick survey revealed both men shared similar features, including the cleft in their chins.

  Brynn pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. She needed to get a grip. Sinking a little lower in her chair, she reached for her cup of coffee and groaned. Cold. Served her right for trying to assess some poor guy waiting for his brother as the next Timothy McVeigh.

  It wasn’t that she suspected everyone. She just couldn’t turn the suspicion off. It made her an excellent intelligence officer, but it also made her a dreadful friend. Daughter. Girlfriend.

  Shaking the errant thought from her mind, Brynn turned her attention back to her work. Tomorrow she would wrap up the Diplomatic Intra-Agency Cooperation program, or DI-AC as they called it, in a pretty little bow and show Frank Peterson that she was ready to move forward in her career.

  The consular position in Ankara, Turkey, had just opened and the timing was . . . perfect. Emotion warred within her. Three years ago, her career serving overseas came to an abrupt and painful halt. Putting aside the goals she’d set for her future, Brynn convinced herself that accepting the mundane and tedious assignments in DC was worth it to take care of her father. Now he was gone, leaving nothing to distract or keep her from pursuing the next step in preventing terrorism.

  Brynn cleared her throat and the shadowy grief still claiming a space in her chest. The night before her father passed, he made her promise not to let her career consume her once he was gone. She promised, if only to give him peace of mind. But she had seen the look of doubt in his eyes, because he knew the truth—with him gone, there was no life outside the CIA. She straightened, a renewed energy wiping out the fatigue settling over her, and clicked her laptop back to life. If she wanted her family’s sacrifices to mean something, then she needed to get back to work.

  Another gust of icy January air swept into the coffee shop, and Brynn thought about ordering another drink to warm her fingers with when footsteps approached.

  Glancing up, she met the tired eyes of Joel Riley. Except . . . they weren’t just tired. His expression was tight. Brynn’s stomach tensed. Seeing Riley outside the office was jarring enough, but his look sent fear down her spine.

  “What is it?”

  “We have a problem.” Riley’s eyes swept the place so quickly most wouldn’t have noticed it unless they were trained. “You need to come with me.”

  Brynn was already gathering up her stuff but paused. “Where? What’s happened?”

  “In the car.”

  Without hesitation, she quickly finished collecting her things and followed Riley out of the café. Those three words sent a chill across her skin worse than the blustery weather forcing Brynn to shield her face behind her scarf. Riley led her to a black SUV idling outside. She was grateful the driver had the heater on full blast when she climbed inside.

  “Did you walk?”

  “Yes,” Brynn answered, scooting across the seat for Riley to get in. The coffee shop was only a block from her apartment and on the east side of the Capitol Building, making it a prime location for employees of nearby businesses and the government as well as tourists looking for a reprieve from the weather, hot or cold. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  He pulled out his phone and tapped a message into it, then set it on his knee and turned to her. “Remon Riad is missing.”

  Brynn blinked. “Remon Riad.” She quickly placed the name to the Egyptian intelligence security officer from her DI-AC program. Shorter man maybe a couple inches taller than her, balding but kept his hair shorn close to his head, smiled a lot. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

  Riley gave the driver a nod, and they pulled away from the curb. “John Sosa went to the barracks at nine this evening for roll call, and Remon wasn’t there. They went to his room, and he wasn’t there either. They asked the others, and no one’s seen him since this morning.”

  “Since this morning?” Her voice pitched, and she took a quick breath to regain control. “What about the afternoon roll call?”

  “They missed him.”

  “How did they miss him? It’s a head count.” She recalled the weeks she’d spent at the Farm making sure she never missed roll call or risked getting kicked out. “What about his stuff?”

  Riley exhaled, his hand fisting over his cell phone. “Gone.”

  Gone. Brynn’s heart pumped heavy in her chest. Thi
s wasn’t good. There had to be an explanation, but a sick feeling turned her blood cold. Not even three days ago Riad had remained after class to talk with her. She’d expected it to be about the program, but the second he mentioned something about a favor, Brynn quickly shut him down. The CIA doesn’t do favors, and it was better not to indulge any idea she could offer anything—a fact she explained to Riad that day. But there had been something in his expression. A look of undeterred resolve as he apologized. He didn’t bring it up again, and Brynn had forgotten all about it until now.

  The SUV took a left, rumbling down the unusually empty streets that gave the large vehicle the room to accelerate in the direction of . . .

  “Why aren’t we headed to the barracks? We should search his room, talk with the others, and—”

  “The barracks have been searched. Sosa has a team on-site questioning everyone.”

  Brynn’s mind raced. “He’s got to be somewhere. Did they check the hospital? Maybe he was sick—” She stopped. It was unlikely her suggestion held merit. The foreign security members were informed that in the event of illness or emergency, they were to contact her or Riley immediately.

  Her thoughts paused when the SUV gained speed on the highway heading north. Awareness hit her square in the chest. She knew exactly where they were headed—Langley. “Peterson knows?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Of course her boss knew, but Riley was kind enough to simply nod. Five years her senior in the agency, Joel Riley had started out in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations as an operations officer. He served on several successful missions in Eastern Europe before returning stateside and requesting a transfer to the Directorate of Analysis. Some at the agency gave him a hard time about leaving such a prestigious division, but Riley said he had no regrets. A fact he affirmed every time he spoke about his wife and children, which was often.

  “Brynn.” He shifted, but it wasn’t the movement that drew her eyes back to her colleague. It was his unsettling tone. “As soon as Riad’s disappearance was reported, Director Peterson had senior-level analysts go over his background.”

  She forced herself to breathe, trying to calm the sudden fear twisting her stomach into knots. An extensive background check had been done on all the visiting intelligence officers before they were even considered for the program. The security of the United States had been her top priority. There was no way—

  “Remon has a third cousin on his mother’s first husband’s side of the family who has been associated with the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  What was left of the air in Brynn’s chest whooshed out, and suddenly it didn’t matter how high the heater was blasting, her blood turned ice cold. It can’t be.

  The DI-AC program was a first in the agency’s history, and she had hinged the next step of her career on its success. While her father watched reruns of Gunsmoke, Brynn imagined the idea of countries finding commonality in the threat of terrorism and uniting in the fight against it. After spending countless hours refining the program, she submitted it, not expecting it to get any traction. But to her surprise, it was well received, and rumor had it that even the CIA director approved.

  With the approval to move forward, Brynn was meticulous in the planning. She recruited the best team of analysts in their fields, and they double- and triple-checked their work. Each of the foreign intelligence officers was vetted extensively, because while their presence in the US was sanctioned, it was also unofficial. She couldn’t just bring foreign spies to the US without jumping through a dozen hoops and then jumping through a dozen more.

  A shudder coursed through her body, causing her stomach to clench with nausea. A member of the Egyptian foreign intelligence . . . an operative . . . was missing. On American soil. The implication of what that meant for her promotion and job paled in comparison to what it could mean for America.

  After a right turn, the SUV stopped at a steel fence electrified with ten thousand volts and guarded by two men armed with automatic weapons. They passed their IDs to the guard, who scanned them and then handed them back before the gate slid open and they continued toward Langley.

  Brynn’s pulse hit peak speed when the surrounding parkland opened to the H-shaped superstructure. Bright landscape floodlights lit up the multistory building like a beacon of intimidation. She rubbed her gloved fingers over the laptop sitting on her lap as she thought about her brief. What makes terrorists so dangerous is their ability to blend in and deceive you.

  How was she going to explain to her boss that an Egyptian operative with ties to a terror organization was missing somewhere in the United States, and she had missed it.

  Or worse—I’ve been deceived.

  3

  McLean, VA

  11:09 PM Tuesday, January 13

  The awe of walking into the CIA headquarters for work on her first day had been daunting, and the feeling hadn’t subsided in the ten years since. However, entering the epicenter of national intelligence in the middle of the night with a foreign liability on the loose—it was straight-up ominous.

  Neither Brynn nor Riley spoke as they made their way to the Directorate of Analysis section on the north side of the complex. Normally, sunlight lit up the space through thirty-foot glass panels, but in the dead of night the hum of fluorescents overhead only added to the unnerving feeling she couldn’t shake.

  The Muslim Brotherhood?

  How had she missed such a crucial piece of information? Riad’s distant connection to one of Egypt’s biggest terrorist organizations would have barred him from being considered for her program. Had his relation been overlooked or purposely omitted—hidden?

  On the elevator, Brynn mentally flipped through the last two years. The Diplomatic Intra-Agency Cooperation program had been her brainchild. Leading a joint effort with America’s allies to proactively prevent and defend against terrorism on a global level was the only way Brynn could see the hope of a future without fear of someone opening fire at a concert, church, or school.

  This program was important to her, and she’d been extra thorough, knowing her boss, CIA Director of Analysis Frank Peterson, had gone the extra mile to make it happen. Some in the agency had doubts and didn’t hesitate to express their concerns over her ability to coordinate and run such a program. It was unfortunate, but many still held old-fashioned opinions about equality in the workplace. Brynn was grateful Frank didn’t subscribe to the antiquated bias. It also helped that he had three grown daughters, so he understood the challenges women faced. And that made this situation all the worse.

  Brynn wanted to make him proud, but had she been so eager in her attempt to prove herself capable that she pushed her team to work too hard or too fast and they’d missed this? They’d been so focused, she’d been so foc—

  Unease knotted the muscles in her shoulders. Brynn’s focus had shifted when her father passed away eight months ago. Her mother’s death had been unexpected. Her father’s had left her unprepared. The sudden loss affected Brynn to her core. The CIA gave her leave to take care of the arrangements, but after her mother’s heart attack, her father had made sure everything was in place so Brynn wouldn’t need to worry. There wasn’t to be any fanfare or memorial. Her father didn’t want that. Most of Brynn’s extended family lived in upstate New York and sent their regards while Brynn stood alone in the rain watching her father being buried.

  She was all alone.

  A fact she didn’t need or want to dwell on, so she remained at work, turning her grief into purpose as she concentrated on her program. Had that adversely affected her work? Or was the oversight due to her desperation to put her career back on track?

  Riley cleared his throat quietly next to her, and Brynn realized he was holding the elevator door open. They walked down the long hall, past empty workstations that would be buzzing with activity in just a few short hours. Stopping at the director’s door, Riley gave her a look she was sure he meant to be reassuring, but there was a measure of concern in his expression.

&nbs
p; “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” she said before knocking softly on the office door. She took in a deep breath, preparing herself for what was coming and knowing full well she’d need more than luck on her side.

  “Come in.”

  As she entered, the stale scent of burned coffee met her along with the sharp gaze of Director Peterson, who was standing in the middle of his office. For a man in his late sixties, Director Peterson was still in better shape than most men half his age. It was like he’d bullied his own body into submission, not allowing nature to turn it soft.

  Rolling her shoulders back, she stepped farther into the office and paused when she caught sight of another man sitting in one of the chairs across from Peterson’s desk. In a tailored charcoal-gray suit, the man didn’t rise from his chair but simply gave her a cursory once-over. Brynn did the same. The man had to be about ten or fifteen years younger than Peterson, definitely fit given the cut of his suit. His graying hair was an inch or so longer on the top than the buzzed sides, giving him a stylish GQ look. Behind black square-framed glasses, blue eyes were still appraising her.

  Brynn shifted, glancing down at her worn jeans peeking out from beneath her coat. Her fingers moved to the stray strands of blonde hair falling out of the knot she’d tied it into at the coffee shop. “Sir, I can wait outside until you’re finished.”

  “No need, Taylor.” Peterson walked around his desk and sat. He motioned for Brynn to take the second chair next to the man. “This is Thomas Walsh, director of SNAP.”

  SNAP?

  “I’m sure Riley briefed you about Riad’s connection to the Muslim Brotherhood—”

  “Distant connection,” Brynn said without thinking. Hard lines creased Peterson’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sir, but I think it’s an important distinction as we assess the situation.”

  “The situation”—Peterson’s voice carried in the room—“is that we have an intelligence officer from a foreign country unaccounted for somewhere in our nation’s capital. Which means we need to consider Riad a threat to our national security—”